


What I'm Trying to Say

by cupstealer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Edgeplay, Edging, Gay Porn Hard, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 09:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10659651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupstealer/pseuds/cupstealer
Summary: Patrick loses his voice for a few weeks in the summer.





	What I'm Trying to Say

**Author's Note:**

> This is a hot mess. I will come back and edit later but Go Hawks! Set the summer of 2016. Title from 'What I'm Trying To Say' by Stars.

Patrick is twenty seven when he gets his tonsils taken out. Two of his sisters had gone through it when they were all little, and now, after two consecutive cases of strep throat, it’s his turn. Just to be safe, his doctor says, and prevent any recurrences during the season. It feels like such bullshit to be dealing with this in the summer. The surgery itself and immediate aftermath aren’t so bad. Not worse or much different from the symptoms of strep itself, anyways. He’s not laid up for long, either. The nuisance is the dietary restrictions.

Oh, and the fact that he can’t talk. At all. 

And not just in a ‘it’s our medical advice that you refrain’ kind of way. Like, he _can’t._ It’s been about a week and a half since the operation and his voice should be back by now, but there isn’t a peep. Just totally gone. The doc says not to worry, though, to give it another week. And truthfully, the whole thing is not the obstacle he thought it would be. He’s got a grocery service and a decent gym in his new building, a dry-erase board just in case. 

He likes his new place. For the time being, anyway. Truth be told, Patrick is more of a nester than a grass-is-greener guy when it comes to this stuff. He signed a lease at the end of his rookie year and that was it, then. That was his base. When it got to feeling too small, he just leased the place next to him, too, instead of moving. Because enough of his life was lived in temporary places. Hotel rooms, billet families, rosters that are always changing on him. Patrick embraces the constants he can manage. But enough was enough, and it was far past time to leave. Until his new building is finished, this pad will work fine. It’s not lacking in many ways, there’s just something about the fact that it’s temporary that makes Patrick uncomfortable.

What isn’t uncomfortable is this high pressure shower setting. It’s one of those shower heads that are a part of the ceiling; those never fail to make Patrick think of a Bond film or something. Post-tonsillectomy, the notable restrictions on him are social and dietary. And a lot of his diet was in shake-form to begin with. So the main difference ends up being less golf and less going out to eat with friends. If he lets himself think about how little his routine his changed by literally being mute, it bums him out. Therefore, he tries not to. 

He’s spending most of his time in the gym upstairs. He’s going to have something to show for this chunk of time; if that something is just muscle mass it’s gonna be a substantial amount. Training camp is months away, but the team only ever gets more competitive about their conditioning competition as the years go by. So he toils in the building’s gym, doing some of the more superficially effective workouts, too. It’s what Seguin called “pressing to impress.” Patrick doesn’t do it too much, there’s already too much work to do where it actually counts. Besides, he’s not allergic to shirts like Jonny or Seguin and the definition is gone as soon as the season gets into full swing, so the payoff isn’t at a premium or anything. But he does relish a challenge and he has to admit it’s kind of satisfying, in a narcissistic way.

His muscles are done for the day, now, though, and the hot water is amazing. If his vocal cords weren’t benched, he’d be moaning for sure. At length, he cuts the water and steps out onto a bath mat where he can get a steadier grip with his feet so he can do some more stretching. He towels his hair, curling his toes into the soft chenille mat. He hit all of his marks for today’s training, and the rest of the day is his. 

The bottle of lime Perrier he’d brought into the bathroom with him (his mouth is dry all the fucking time now; thanks, tonsils) is sweating on the counter and the _hisss_ of cracking it open is almost as satisfying as the cool citrus floating up to his nose, filling his mouth. He strolls out of the bathroom stark naked. There’s a stream of water escaping the corner of his lips, but the bright chill of it feels so nice running down his neck he doesn’t care one bit. The bottle’s almost empty and he decides (without letting said bottle leave his lips) that procuring another will be the first order of the day that lies languidly ahead of him. He’ll figure everything else out from there.

He’s making a beeline for the fridge when a strange sound interrupts him. Patrick whips his head around to find Jonny leaning against the kitchen counter and more water spills from his mouth in surprise.

“Good Lor—” Jonny chokes with wide, roaming eyes that he belatedly snaps to gaze pointedly over Patrick’s shoulder. “Sorry! Sorry. I didn’t mean to barge in.”

Patrick’s still sort of stunned. Jonny has a place in this building, too. That’s not the weird part. Jonny’s place is just two floors up, but Jonny himself is supposed to be nine hundred _miles_ up, in Winnipeg. 

“I just got into town and thought I’d see how you were doing,” Jonny continues to babble. “But obviously I should have…” He trails off, floundering a little. He’s tan from fishing and his hair’s longer than he lets it get during the season. He’s clearly putting his time in at the gym, as well. Summer looks good on Jonny.

Normally, by now, Patrick would have interrupted him, but his voice is useless at the moment and his brain is still scrambling to catch up with the situation. It only took one addition for ‘relaxing summer afternoon to himself’ to become ‘wet and naked with Jonny in his kitchen.’ It takes some processing. In place of words, he raises his brows at Jonny with a bemused, awkward expression.

“... I should have called ahead,” Jonny finishes slowly, inclining his head expectantly, like he’s waiting for a response. Patrick can’t help but notice Jonny’s eyes trailing down just a little as he waits for something that isn’t coming. 

Patrick sucks in his lips and sets the empty bottle on the counter next to him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I should have called ahead and I’m sorry?” Jonny tries again. Patrick just watches him, a slight grin unfolding on his face. He has to admit, he’s enjoying watching Jonny squirm, just a little. Normally by now he’d be blabbing along with Jonny and laughing it off, maybe grabbing a dish towel or and apron to preserve his modesty in some funny way to defuse any awkwardness. But it’s strange, it’s like the fact that he can’t blather awkwardly means he doesn’t feel discomfort in the first place. 

Jonny seems to interpret Patrick’s posture, his silence, and his amused expression as a total lack of concern with the situation and, like any other guy who grew up in locker rooms, Jonny visibly strives to match his nonchalance. “Anyways,” he says, apparently setting himself to the task of forcing a normal conversation, “How’s your summer going? You look good.” He winces immediately, like that’s one he wants back. 

Patrick tilts his head, still grinning. There are all these little details he’s never noticed before, with Jonny. Patrick has always been so caught up with his own half of the interaction, often with hiding his stubborn attraction to the guy, that he’s been missing stuff. Jonny always seemed so steady but maybe Patrick just wasn’t paying enough attention. It’s delightful.

Jonny’s flushed now. “I mean, you look normal.” He gestures with a casual hand to lend his words credibility. “This is normal.” He shakes his head at himself. Patrick can’t look away. Jonny makes another mystified expression. “Should I go?” he asks weakly, facade crumbling under the weight of Patrick’s silence.

Patrick smiles wide at him and turns to finally get that Perrier from the fridge. He holds up a finger at Jonny to get him to wait, and strolls back to his bedroom to grab his dry-erase board and some shorts. 

He squeaks out a message in red marker as he makes his way back into the kitchen, and turns the board around to show Jonny.

_Can’t talk. Got my tonsils taken out._

Jonny squints at the board and then at Patrick, affronted. “You got surgery and you didn’t tell me?”

It’s true. He probably should have told Jonny. But… things are weird with them. It’s not shocking that Jonny’s acting a bit odd in the face of it. It happened a few months ago, after Game 5 against St. Louis. It had been so many things—exhaustion from double overtime, elation at Patrick’s beautiful fucking goal to win it, relief at staving off elimination, and that heady sense of solidarity. Sometimes looking at Jonny across the ice, it feels like they’re the only two people in the world, just standing in the eye of a massive hurricane. Them against the world. It was only after Game 5 that Patrick got the impression he wasn’t alone in that feeling.

Jonny threw together a postgame team dinner that night, just a small optional thing to toast not being knocked out. It also gave guys the chance to buy Patrick the steak and the tall drink he deserved. It was about half the team in the private room of one of their usual steakhouses. Game 6 was day after next and they were flying out the next morning, so no one took it past one drink. Still, he and Jonny were stumbling and leaning against each other as they walked out to Patrick’s car, crashing hard from all the adrenalin. 

Jonny’s temporary place was in walking distance, but Patrick offered him a ride anyway. They got into the dark car, Patrick put the keys in, and Jonny tugged his shirt collar from across the gear shift to press a firm kiss to his lips. Out of nowhere. They ended up lying across the backseat of his car, desperately pulling each other off in the dark. It started so fast, and then it was over so fast, and then they really needed sleep, so Patrick dropped Jonny off. It seemed like they would talk about it the next day but it never happened. And then they were eliminated in that brutal Game 7 and everyone skipped town and it was clear that, whether it was because of timing or by design, they were pretending like it never happened. Which was awesome for Patrick’s ego and his stupid ancient crush on Jonny and his general outlook for the future. Just super. 

So forgive Patrick if he hasn’t been Mr. Sharing this summer. 

Patrick shrugs and adds to the board, _Just my tonsils, NBD._

Jonny sighs in response. Patrick points to the fridge and mouths, _You want something to drink?_

Jonny shakes his head, but he strides over to the fridge and grabs a bottle of juice.

Jonny peppers him with questions, how does he feel and what is he taking and has anyone been looking after him. Patrick rolls his eyes but indulges him, cramping his writing to fit around the faceoff circles on the dry-erase board. 

After a bit, Jonny coughs. “You do. Look good, you know. You’ve been doing something different, right?”

Patrick blinks at Jonny, startled. Where he would normally tell Jonny to shut the fuck up, he shrugs, flushing at the fact that Jonny noticed. Well, Jonny out of anybody would. He could probably list out the exact muscles Patrick’s been working more than usual. 

There’s a silence then. Under different circumstances, Patrick would probably find some subject change, but it seems like too much effort to start a whole new conversation on his whiteboard just for the sake of making conversation. In the silence, he notices Jonny fidget. Little pieces are starting to form a picture in Patrick’s mind.

He turns from his seat at the kitchen island to face Jonny, leaning back on an elbow on the counter. His hair is still damp, curling against his neck, cool in the breeze of the air conditioning. Jonny stares right back at him.

“You know, I’m only just now realizing how much you normally talk.”

Patrick just keeps on looking at Jonny with a slowly dawning certainty. 

“I think I understand you better this way, to be honest.”

Patrick raises a brow, as if to say, ‘Oh?’

Jonny takes the bait and pushes off the kitchen counter to muscle himself between Patrick’s knees. He presses the broad pad of his thumb to the corner of Patrick’s mouth. “Don’t I?” Jonny says, low and soft. His fingers come to rest splayed on the back of Patrick’s neck and they pull him in with a gentle pressure.

Jonny’s mouth is soft and wet opening against Patrick’s, and maybe all this shouldn’t be surprising but it is. Patrick’s throat works, wanting to let out some noise to signify all the feeling that are bubbling up in him. But nothing leaves his lips except Jonny’s own, and they return quickly, teeth scraping lightly along his bottom lip. Patrick’s pulse jumps against his skin like it’s a desperate to touch Jonny as Patrick himself is. He wraps eager arms around Jonny’s neck, pulling him close to lick into his mouth. 

Jonny breaks after a minute, panting into Patrick’s mouth, “Can’t believe we’re doing this. Thought last time was a one-off, you never said anything.”

Patrick gives him a look that may or may not accurately convey ‘Right back atcha.’

“I just… I didn’t know what it was for you that night. There was a lot going on,” Jonny says, his grip tightening on Patrick’s knee. “I might have been anybody. I didn’t… I just didn’t know.”

Patrick feels around the counter behind Jonny for his board because he’s a little insulted at the phrasing.

_So you thought I’d just fuck whoever??_

“I wasn’t sure! Sex doesn’t have to mean anything! You fucked a watermelon!”

Patrick dulls the marker stabbing the board with vicious capital letters. _SHARPY MADE THAT UP!!_

He adds, _F U_ , underneath for good measure, because c’mon, did Jonny really believe that? Jonny’s just laughing at him now and Patrick kisses him to shut him the hell up. They can talk about this later. Maybe when Patrick can actually talk. 

For now, Patrick spreads his legs wide to accommodate Jonny’s size, shoved in close. It’s intoxicating. If he were sitting on something other than a minimalist stool that came with the place, he’d have Jonny in his lap by now, by god. As it is, that would be a hell of safety concern. 

So Patrick breaks the kiss, his lower lip reluctant to slip free of Jonny’s teeth. He wants to hum, wants to say Jonny’s name, wants to laugh, but all he can do is pull Jonny behind him with a vice grip on his forearm as he gets up and moves to his bedroom.

Jonny tugs his own shirt off on the way, and, oh, that’s nice. Unlike the last time, he can see everything in the warm sunlight spilling in. Summer has always looked good on Jonny. He follows Patrick onto the bed, inches apart from him like their bodies are magnetized. Jonny captures his mouth again, kissing him hard and deep.

Patrick’s tenting his shorts and he reaches between them to adjust himself, rubbing his thumb along the shaft for a little relief through the material. Without breaking the kiss, Jonny drops his hand to cover Patrick’s, rubbing Patrick’s dick by proxy. It takes about three seconds for Patrick to kick his shorts off and Jonny doesn’t waste any time wrapping his calloused fingers around Patrick. It hits Patrick that he left his whiteboard and phone in the kitchen, which might as well be miles away. He’s stranded under Jonny, forced to rely on other forms of communication. Like just doing what he wants. He sits up to fish the lube out of his nightstand, turning back eagerly to push himself back into Jonny’s arms. If he can’t say how much he wants Jonny, he’ll make sure he gets the picture anyway. He slicks up his dick before Jonny knocks his hand aside and takes over with a firm grip. Being able to see Jonny makes everything so different from the last time, despite so many of the particulars being the same—Jonny lying next to him, pulling him off, biting at his lips. 

Patrick wants to get Jonny’s shorts off, too, but he doesn’t have the self control to push Jonny away and make it happen. The slickness and pressure are amazing, as is the way Jonny scrapes his blunt nails through Patricks hair and laps at his jaw. Soon, far far too soon, Patrick’s hips flex forward and he feels his release coming. His body arches in anticipation and though he can’t warn Jonny, he seems to know, because with a slick sucking noise, pulls his tight hand off Patrick’s dick entirely and squeezes at the base hard with a circle of his fingers, staving off Patrick’s orgasm. 

Patrick’s chest is rising and caving as he pants looking to Jonny hazily for answers. Jonny drops his forehead to Patrick’s collarbone and says, “It was over so fast last time. For both of us,” he adds, so Patrick knows it isn’t a complaint. “I wanna… I wanna take my time.” 

Jonny licks at the base of his neck and relaxes the circle of his fingers. He brushes against Patrick’s balls with the back of a finger, almost coaxing. Jonny doesn’t look up for Patrick’s approval or reaction, just takes a moment to pet along Patrick’s thighs. When Patrick looks down, all he can see is the top of Jonny’s head, still pressed into the crook of his neck, and lower down between them, the shiny head of his own cock, flushed a deep and frustrated shade.

Patrick squirms in Jonny’s hold wordlessly, straining for more contact. If Jonny won’t get him off, he could at least let Patrick pay Jonny’s dick some attention. But when Patrick goes to reach for the waistband of Jonny’s shorts, Jonny’s already moving down the bed. He gets his mouth on Patrick’s dick, heedless of the lube, and Patrick is incapacitated just by the sight of it. He still wants better access to Jonny, for Jonny to ditch his shorts, but he’s not going to say no to getting his dick sucked.

Jonny starts off soft and wet, a little sloppy, so unlike the practiced technique of most of the girls Patrick sleeps with. It isn’t long before Jonny’s got half of Patrick’s dick in his mouth, stretching his lips, sucking so good. They’d probably hear Patrick five floors up if he had a voice. His legs tremble and his core spasms, so so close, and Jonny pulls off again, as timely as if Patrick had asked him to. Patrick pushes a frustrated breath through his nose, the closest he can get to cursing. His balls ache, he needs to come. 

He runs tender, pleading fingers through the hair at Jonny’s temple. Jonny looks up at him through his lashes, mouth still poised two inches above where Patrick needs it. They lock eyes and Jonny has to see his desperation, but he doesn’t move a muscle. The hand holding Patrick’s hips in place strokes absently back and forth. Jonny’s fingers brush along the quivering planes of Patrick’s sensitive lower abdomen till they brush Jonny’s other hand, holding Patrick’s dick upright. Patrick won’t thrust up into Jonny’s mouth, if Jonny wanted that he wouldn’t be holding Patrick down, but the thought does cross Patrick’s mind.

Jonny dips his head to lip warmly at the head of Patrick dick, at the precome there. Patrick’s mouth drops open and works uselessly, fist clenching demonstratively in the sheets next to Jonny’s arm. Jonny gives him one hard suck before pulling off again. Patrick’s teeth clack shut as he clenches his jaw. Jonny’s just having his way with him—as hokey as it sounds it’s the absolute truth. He holds Patrick’s dick this way and that to treat him to soft kisses and an occasional hard lick, brushing a thumb against his balls in a gentle and absolutely devastating way. 

Patrick has to drop his head to the mattress and focus on his breathing. “That’s it,” Jonny whispers, and the hot gust of his breath alone makes Patrick’s dick twitch in his grasp. It’s a good thing he can’t talk because he’d be begging now. Anything, anything. Jonny strokes him, spreading his spit everywhere. Patrick’s dick is a red shiny mess, and then it’s gone from sight as Jonny sucks him down, then strokes him with a tight, slippery grip. Patrick’s ass clenches and his hips flex. It’s happening, it’s finally happening. 

When Jonny pulls off this time, Patrick actually tries to yell at him. His lips make weak sounds and Jonny has the gall to smile at him. Patrick is going to murder him. He’s busy trying to form a single, violent curse when Jonny lets go of Patrick’s dick altogether and crawls up the bed. “C’mere,” Jonny says. Before Patrick can take stock of the situation, Jonny’s got him lying on his side with Jonny pressed all along his back. He can feel Jonny’s own erection pressed between his cheeks through Jonny’s shorts and he gives a weak sigh. It’s the closest to a groan he can get. Patrick’s fingers twitch and his hand moves to finish himself off because, god, enough is enough, but Jonny catches him with a gentle hand. 

“Let me,” he murmurs in Patrick’s ear. “Please, please, just let me.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, but he doesn’t move again until Patrick sags in his arms in acceptance. Jonny wraps his fingers around Patrick’s swollen, impatient cock, squeezing tight so the head makes an obscene sound when it pops in. Patrick rolls back into Jonny, rocked by the sensation and then again in search of that pressure and heat between his cheeks. God, Jonny’s grip is heaven.

“Do you want to come?” Jonny pants into his neck. Patrick instantly goes to nod, but pauses at the last second to take stock of how he actually feels. It’s stress, so much stress on his body, but he feels incredible. And he can last a little longer, he resolves, gulping down air. He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “Fuck,” Jonny breathes, and gives him a couple more glorious pulls before dropping his hand to stroke up and down Patrick’s shaking thighs. He reaches to finally pull his shorts and briefs down. When he presses back against Patrick, he holds there breathing deeply and intentionally. Patrick can feel every twitch of Jonny’s dick and every tiny aborted thrust of Jonny’s hips against his bare ass. This is taking a lot of control for Jonny, too. 

“So fucking good,” Jonny moans and returns his hand to rub at the head of Patrick’s dick. Patrick is whining silently now, jerking into the touch because he can’t help it. There’s moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes and he turns to wipe it on the sheets beneath him. Jonny twists his wrist, jerking Patrick fast and hard. Patrick mouths, ‘Goddamn,’ and grinds back into Jonny as best as he can without missing any precious, fleeting contact from Jonny’s hand.

When Jonny takes his hand a way this time, he scoots his body away, too, just breathing, leaving Patrick inches away from contact. Both of them are shaking. Jonny props himself up to see where Patrick’s mouth is working as furiously as it would if it were actually making sound. Jonny pants hard and says, “I don’t like this after all. Wish I could hear you.” Patrick squeezes his eyes shut at that and digs his nails into his thigh to keep from touching himself.

After a long moment, Jonny comes back, wrapping around Patrick in what feels like every way possible. He runs wet fingers over Patrick’s balls, and wraps his hot, slick palm around the shaft, working him up and down quick and loud, so loud in the quiet room. Jonny’s thrusting up between Patrick’s cheeks with fervor now and Patrick can’t hold on anymore. Jonny’s hand just keeps going and going, so good and so endless, and if Patrick has ever come harder, he doesn’t remember it. Jonny milks him through it, the sound is even more obscene as jet after jet of come lands on Patrick’s sheets. It’s a good thing Patrick can’t speak or he’d have said something _really_ stupid then. Something he couldn’t take back. 

Patrick’s whole body is rolling with the feeling of release as Jonny continues pushing against him from behind, letting loose a constant stream of deep curses and groans. Jonny wraps his arms around Patrick and thrusts once, twice, and he comes like that, pressed tight between Patrick’s cheeks. 

“Let me,” Jonny says again, as his shaking dissipates. He runs gentle fingertips along Patrick’s side and curves his body to surround Patrick. His voice is fading with his energy. “Let me,” Jonny says. Patrick can’t say no.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr!](http://cupstealer.tumblr.com)


End file.
